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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28022379">The Soldier and the Prince</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/rons_pigwidgeon/pseuds/MsCaptainWinchester'>MsCaptainWinchester (rons_pigwidgeon)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>25 Days of Spideypool Christmas 2020 [10]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Battlefield Aftermath, Child-Bearer Peter Parker, High Lord Wade Wilson, Implied Mpreg, Injury Recovery, M/M, Nursing, Post-War, Prince Peter Parker, Screen Reader Friendly, War, lying by omission</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:14:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,790</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28022379</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/rons_pigwidgeon/pseuds/MsCaptainWinchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Nervous did not cover the feelings swimming in Peter’s stomach as he paced in front of the doors that lead to the throne room. As soon as he walked through those doors, his entire life would change. Whether for the good or bad would depend on his uncle’s choice. What if the best choice was the High Lord himself, rumored to be cruel and violent? Could Peter survive such a relationship, even if he had the leverage of a crown?  </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>His thoughts turned to the wounded soldier he’d pulled from the snow in the dead of winter and dragged to his tent and taken care of, sick with infection from a jagged wound on his side. His advisors had argued that the crown prince shouldn’t have been caring for an enemy soldier, but something about the man’s eyes had drawn Peter in and made it impossible for him to leave the man to die.  </i></p><p> </p><p> <i>Peter shook himself of the memory. He wasn’t likely to ever see that soldier again. It was much more likely to be a cousin or a bastard son. If only Peter hadn’t been born a child-bearer, he might have been able to choose for himself.  </i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>Behind the heavy, carved doors music started up; and with it, his heartbeat. </i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Peter Parker/Wade Wilson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>25 Days of Spideypool Christmas 2020 [10]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2025320</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>275</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Soldier and the Prince</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This story is waaaaay longer than I was expecting, and both beta'd and not beta'd. The "current day" sections at the beginning and end have been edited by the lovely and wonderful <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/jukoist/profile">Jukoist</a>. The flashbacks were written at her urging, but were not written with enough time for her to edit before it was 10:36pm and I needed a story to post. So, here we are! Hopefully she likes the almost 2k of editions, and y'all do, as well! If you see weird typos, feel free to shout at me about them in the comments.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nervous did not cover the feelings swimming in Peter’s stomach as he paced in front of the doors that lead to the throne room. As soon as he walked through those doors, his entire life would change. Whether for the good or bad would depend on his uncle’s choice. Not even the elaborate holiday decorations that poured out of every crevice of the palace was enough to distract him from the inevitable. He tugged at his suit jacket, fussed at his sleeves, fingers fumbling against the fabric. What if the best choice was the High Lord himself, rumored to be cruel and violent? Could Peter survive such a relationship, even if he had the leverage of a crown?  </p><p>His thoughts turned to the wounded soldier he’d pulled from the snow in the dead of winter and dragged to his tent and taken care of, sick with infection from a jagged wound on his side. His advisors had argued that the crown prince shouldn’t have been caring for an enemy soldier. It wasn’t safe. The soldier could have realized who he was and killed him at any moment, and the war would have been lost. But something about the man’s eyes had drawn Peter in and made it impossible for him to leave the man to die.  </p><p>Peter shook himself of the memory. He wasn’t likely to ever see that soldier again. He’d been in a low-rank uniform and held no airs of money or power. And besides, that had been over a year ago. The man might not have even survived the end of the war. It was much more likely to be a cousin or a bastard son. If only Peter hadn’t been born a child-bearer, he might have been able to choose for himself.  </p><p>Behind the heavy, carved doors music started up; and with it, his heartbeat. </p><p>His palms were clammy, he suddenly realized. He needed to find a towel to dry them on before he walked down the aisle, or he was going to greet his future husband with an uncomfortable handshake. He turned to Anna Maria, desperate, but the doors opened before he could open his mouth to ask, and he was faced with an entire sea of people looking at him expectantly. Anna Maria gave him a pitying smile and helpless shrug before shooing him on his way.  </p><p>“<em>Shit</em>,” he whispered under his breath. He awkwardly rubbed his palms onto the backs of his thighs before he straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath, and entered the throne room to an orchestra playing the winter wedding march.  </p><p>Five hundred pairs of eyes followed him down the aisle. Dignitaries from all over the world, their allies in the war to his left watching him with warm smiles and encouraging looks, their enemies-turned-reluctant-allies to his right watching him with cautious skepticism as he passed. Though their cultures differed greatly, there was little to distinguish between his people and his former enemy’s. If he hadn’t recognized any of the faces he passed, he might not have been able to distinguish between his allies and those who had sought to kill him not two months prior. It only served to remind him how right he had been to treat their soldiers with as much kindness and care as he treated his own. They were likely more alike than either side was willing to admit. </p><p>Up ahead his uncle stood at the foot of the throne with a proud smile just for him. It straightened his spine, reminded him why he was doing this, what it would mean for his family and his people. No more fighting. Stability, strength, healthy trading partners. No matter what kind of person his new spouse turned out to be, this wedding would bring a better life to his people, and that was all that mattered. The sick feeling in his stomach disappeared, replaced by a feeling of determination. He would meet whatever fate that lay before him with the strength of his people at his back.</p><p>He stepped up to the dais and bowed to his uncle. To his right, the man who would be his future joy or destruction stood. When he glanced up, his heart stopped.  </p><p>“It’s you,” he whispered, voice cracking on disbelief. He was met with a devastating smile.  </p><p>“It’s me,” his soldier said back, tall and broad and healthy and whole and <em>standing in front of Peter</em>. To marry Peter and solidify the alliance between their two nations. But... he was supposed to be a lowly foot soldier. Surely this couldn’t be possible, an insult to the alliance no matter how much Peter wanted it for himself.  </p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>Peter slunk through the snow on silent feet, darting from lump to lump checking for pulses, rasped breaths, any sign of life. He whispered thanks and goodbyes to those who lay still, closing eyes where he had to, feeling his heart break with every new face burned into the back of his eyes. The snow was stained red under his feet, dirty and so dark. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Peter was beginning to lose hope of finding anyone alive when a weak wheeze of breath broke the cold air. He turned to the sound and hurried closer, signaling his guard watching from the edge of the field. The wheezing was uneven, obstructed, sounded painful. When Peter finally found the source, an enemy soldier lay over an hours-dead horse, pinned to the horse’s neck with a pike through one arm, his chest slashed and bloody, his skin pale where it wasn’t coated in blood—either his own or that of the soldiers he’d killed. There was no way to tell. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Peter crouched next to him and prodded the wound, checking to see where it had punctured, calculating quickly whether it would be better to cut the pike and leave it in to prevent bleeding out or remove it to make moving him easier. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Behind him, Johnny appeared with a deep frown. “He’s not ours,” he whispered, crouching next to Peter.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“He’ll die if we leave him here,” Peter insisted, turning to Johnny with wide eyes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Johnny squared his jaw. “One less of them killing our people.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Peter gave him a sharp look. “If we lose our sense of morality, we’ve already lost. This man is hurt. It is our duty as human beings to help him.” Johnny tried to argue further, but Peter wasn’t interested in listening. He gestured to the soldier’s arm and indicated that Johnny needed to grip it. “Lift him away so I can cut him from the horse. We’ll never get the pike out in enough time.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Johnny did as asked even though he looked unhappy with the instruction, as he often did when Peter made decisions he disagreed with. It was filthy, hard work, but not long later the soldier was free of impediment and Johnny was struggling to lift him. Peter took his feet, the both of them careful as they made their way back across the battlefield to the waiting cart. Soon, other carts would appear to carry off the dead to be sent home for burial, but for the moment, Peter had a soldier to keep alive.</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>The Council stood in a circle around Peter’s cot, looking down at the soldier barely clinging to life with matching frowns. Peter was knelt next to the soldier’s arm, doing his best to clean and pack to wound. The soldier slept through it, not even wincing when Peter moved him. Above his head, Anna Maria gave Norman a significant look over Peter’s back, while Ben shifted on his feet next to her. In the corner, Johnny stood with a hand on his sword hilt and a look on his face that said he had quite a bit to say if anyone wanted to consult him. No one did.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“If you aren’t going to let me fight, this is something I can do to help. I have done everything you’ve ever asked me to do. Let me save this man,” Peter said without looking up from his work. He knew what their objections would be. He even understood their reasoning. But what he’d said to Johnny on that battlefield held true, and looking at the soldier’s blanched face and torn clothes, Peter felt the conviction of it all the more. Saving this man was the right thing to do, and he would hear no arguments.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“And when he wakes up and holds you at knife point as a means of escape?” Norman asked.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Peter looked up at Norman, then pointedly over at Johnny. “I have protection. And despite your insistence on the weakness of child-bearers, I can defend myself just fine.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There was another long silence as Peter continued to work. And then finally Anna Maria said, “He can’t know who you are. Use an alias. We’ve kept you well enough hidden during this war that he’s not likely to recognize you on sight, but you cannot let on that you’re the crown prince.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Of course not. I know how to minimize risk, Anna Maria.” Peter sat back on his heels and frowned at her, the two of them at eye level. Her own serious look didn’t falter.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You’re too kind-hearted sometimes. I know you know how to take care of yourself and the interests of our people, but you let people into your heart that you shouldn’t, and this could easily become one of those times. No matter how hurt he is, he is our enemy. The blood soaking his uniform is as much that of our own people as it is his own. Don’t forget that.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Peter softened at her words, nodding. “Of course, I could never forget that. But if we can’t treat their soldiers with the same kindness as we would show our own, we’ve already lost the war. I understand a need for caution, but this is the right thing to do.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Anna Maria looked about as frustrated as Johnny, but she turned her eyes up to Ben on her other side and nodded. “Alright, if this is what you want.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Above them, Norman opened his mouth to object once more, but Ben gave him a sharp look and nodded towards the tent flaps. They would discuss amongst themselves, as usual, and Ben would rule in Peter’s favor, as he usually did. While he allowed for Norman’s restrictive ideas about what power a child-bearer should have over the ruling of the country, as regent he always made sure to listen to Peter and put his concerns first just as Peter’s parents had hoped he would.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Peter let them go, continuing his own work without hesitation.</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>“Am I in Heaven?” came a raspy voice from across the tent. Peter looked up from the salve he was mixing to find blue eyes staring at him in delirious wonder.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You’re alive. I found you on the battlefield a few days ago. I wasn’t sure if you’d wake up. How do you feel?” Peter asked, standing up and walking over to the cot to kneel beside it. He wiped at the soldier’s sweaty brow with a cloth from the basin. He was as clean of blood as Peter could manage while he was still unconscious and bare-chested thanks to careful help from Johnny and a nurse from the sick bay. Peter had considered moving the soldier there his first night, but was too nervous about how he might be treated as soon as they saw the cut of his uniform pants. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Pretty sure I’m being touched by an angel,” the soldier said weakly, still looking at Peter like he was a deity.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m a mere mortal, I can assure you. Unlike you, who most certainly should not be alive after all the blood you lost.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m like a cockroach, never gonna kill me,” the man joked, winking. Peter laughed, nodding his head in agreement as he rewet the cloth with more clean water and continued to wipe his forehead down. His fever had raged for three days and was showing no signs of breaking, but the fitful tossing and turning in his sleep seemed to have settled. The fact that the man was able to make jokes was a miracle. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“An admirable trait. Wish I could say the same. You should probably rest, though. You’re body’s still fighting an infection and healing your wound. I’ll have broth sent for and wake you in a bit to try to eat, alright?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Blue eyes fluttered. “Like I said, an angel…” he mumbled. He was asleep once more, much more peacefully. Peter knelt at his side wiping him clean and watching him sleep for a long while before sending for warm broth, conscious all the while of Johnny watching silently from the corner.</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>Days passed, and his advisor became increasingly agitated with each sunrise that the soldier remained in Peter’s tent. He knew something was happening, some greater unrest than the usual aggression of war. There were rumors all over the camp of in-fighting among the generals on the Canadian side. Peter was rarely permitted the details, thought to be too delicate, and as war wasn’t to his taste, he trusted his own generals to keep them safe. “He’s going to realize any day now…” Peter overheard Norman say as he passed by the counsel tent one afternoon on his way back from the medical bay. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“We can leverage this to our favor. If we keep him prisoner, they’ll—” Anna Maria replied. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Peter didn’t listen to the rest of the conversation. What they did with the soldier when he grew strong enough to walk on his own could be discussed when that time came, but at the moment, he was still struggling to sit up long enough to swallow soup. Peter returned to the tent to find him awake, but laying down, prodding at the bandage around his arm like he was considering removing it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Leave it be. It won’t get better if you keep poking at it and re-opening the wound,” Peter scolded him, setting the supplies he’d retrieved down on his workbench.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Just trying to get a look at the damage. I’m no stranger to this kind of thing. I’ve been fighting a long time,” the soldier told him, ignoring his scolding and continuing to poke at the bandage.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m sure you’ve had a decade of medical training and apprenticed under a Master Healer for five years, as well, then.” Peter paused, looking at him with amusement. “Oh no, you haven’t? Then stop touching it and let me do my work.” He walked over and set a tray of food heavily on the stool next to the cot. “It’s lunchtime anyway. Let’s see if you can keep down more today than you did yesterday.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yes, Mom,” the soldier quipped with a teasing grin. Peter gave him a look as he helped him up, which he allowed without complaining even though Peter could see him wincing. Peter propped him up with pillows and pulled a second stool over to help him eat. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Several days of spoon-feeding an adult man had made the process less strange, but no less intimate. The soldier watched his every move, out of fascination more than caution, Peter thought based on the look on his face. He dutifully accepted every bite Peter fed him, slurping inelegantly and making Peter smile. His etiquette teacher would probably throw a fit at the scene, but Peter found it endearing. “Do you often stare at people while they care for you?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Not many people take care of me, and none of the ones that do are half as pretty to look at as you,” the soldier told him, a soft flirtation to his smile.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I imagine the ones that are don’t tolerate being told so while they’re trying to do their work,” Peter replied, but he could feel his cheeks warm all the same.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Don’t take compliments well, do you?” The smile widened.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Peter gave him a flat look and held the spoon up again. “Eat your soup.”</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>Late at night, Peter woke to rustling sounds and turned to find his soldier thrashing around on his cot, muttering to himself. Peter climbed out of his own cot and walked over to try and wake him, worry churning in his stomach. The soldier’s face was scrunched up with anguish, his words harsh when Peter could make them out. Whatever his dreams were, they were unhappy. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Peter knelt at his side and smoothed a cool hand over his forehead, pushing the soft blond hair away. His fever had broken the previous week, and he hadn’t slowly been improving ever since, but this was his first nightmare intense enough to wake Peter up as well. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It’s alright,” Peter murmured to him, petting his hair in soothing strokes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Suddenly, his hand was snatched in a much larger one and squeezed tight enough to hurt. The soldier pulled the arm away from his face as his eyes opened, fierce anger alighting them. As soon as he laid eyes on Peter, his entire body relaxed and his grip loosened. “My angel,” he said.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Peter tried not to blush. “You were having a nightmare. I thought I should wake you before you re-opened your wound.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“How noble of you.” His voice was gruff, sleep-raspy and resentful for reasons Peter couldn’t hope to understand.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Unsure how to respond, Peter took his hand back and placed it over his other in his lap. “I only wanted to make sure you were alright. You sounded upset.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The soldier brushed off the idea with a flick of his wrist. “Bad dreams are bad dreams. You don’t need to worry about it.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Peter frowned at him. “I do need to worry about it because I’m worried about you,” he said. Probably too honest, but he couldn’t help himself. The feeling had been building since the moment he found him on the battlefield and only grown stronger with time. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The soldier game him a long, complicated look before saying, “You shouldn’t,” and looking away from him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Peter had no interest in being dismissed, even if what he was saying was crazy. He took the man’s jaw in his hand and forced him to make eye contact. “Too late. I have worked too hard and ruined too many blankets keeping you alive. If I want to care about you, that’s my right. You don’t have to like it, but you will accept it.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>They stared at each other for the longest time, the two of them caught in a contest of wills that seemed to drag on for minutes, if not hours. Blue eyes flickered to his mouth for a fraction of a second. Impulse took over, and Peter was surging forward, pressing their mouths together in a desperate kiss that Peter felt all the way down to his toes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>When he pulled back, his soldier was looking at him the same way he had that first afternoon, like Peter was a deity come down to grace him with his presence. He stroked Peter’s cheek with his good hand, rough thumb smoothing Peter’s soft skin over and over again in a mesmerizing rhythm. Peter’s heart was beating like a drum in his chest. Neither of them spoke, but when the soldier pulled him onto the cot with him, Peter settled over him like it was the hundredth time and not the first.</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>He awoke the next morning alone. The soldier’s armor was missing, his boots no longer lined up at the foot of the cot. The blankets still smelled of him, but they were the only trace that the man had ever been there. Peter sat up and looked around his tent feeling oddly hollow and alone.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>When he overheard Anna Maria and Norman arguing on his way to check in with his uncle, he stepped between  them.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You don’t need to worry about what to do with the man I’ve been taking care of once he’s healthy enough to move. He’s gone,” Peter told them, crossing his arms over his chest. The sense of loss hadn’t faded with sleep. It sat in his chest like a weight that Peter wasn’t certain would ever go away.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What do you mean, he’s gone?” Anna Maria said, voice reaching high in alarm.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Exactly what I said. I woke up this morning, and he wasn’t there.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Anna Maria and Norman exchanged a look. “Well, that puts a damper on things,” Norman said. He sounded genuinely disappointed, a full change from the insistence of that first day that Peter let the man die. Peter didn’t understand the turn-around, but was too upset about the situation himself to worry about it.</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>Peter looked back at his uncle, thoroughly confused. “But how…” </p><p>“Crown Prince Peter Benjamin Richard Parker of York, it is my pleasure to introduce you to the High Lord Wade Winston Wilson of Canada. I believe you two have met,” Uncle Ben said with a mischievous smile.  </p><p>Peter mouthed ‘High Lord of Canada’ as he turned to fully face his betrothed, no longer the weak, ashen-faced man in a torn, bloody uniform grasping at life on Peter’s cot. He looked the part of a ruler, flushed with health, clean-shaven, well-fed and strong, the buttons on his dress uniform polished so shiny Peter could see himself reflected in them. A row of medals pinned to his lapel proved him to be a decorated veteran, and the crown upon his head showed his rank. How had Peter so misunderstood the situation? No wonder his advisors had been so against his efforts at care. Why hadn’t they simply told him...? But perhaps they had feared Peter’s reaction, feared that Peter would choose to reveal his own status in turn in an effort to broker peace.  </p><p>Peter looked up into the warm blue eyes that had been forever burned into his brain and chose to set aside his questions. It didn’t matter what had been decided then. There was peace now, and Peter was about to marry the exact man he hoped to. And looking up at High Lord Wade Winston Wilson of Canada, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that all the rumors of cruelty and violence were unfounded. Rumors alone. His soldier reaching out for his hands across the space between them could never harm him. </p><p>As Peter slid his hands into Wade’s, in front of them Uncle Ben began to speak, “Ladies and Gentleman, thought we have suffered much hardship and lost too many to the pursuit of war, we come together on this bright Winter Solstice to celebrate the marriage of two hearts and two kingdoms brought into union...” </p><p>Outside the massive windows to his back, it started to snow. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I do not consent to my stories being listed on Goodreads or other book platforms.</p><p>If you want writing updates from me, you can follow me on Twitter <a href="https://twitter.com/RonsPigwidgeon">@RonsPigwidgeon</a>, <a href="https://mscaptainwinchester.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a>, <a href="https://mscaptainwinchester.newtumbl.com/">NewTumbl</a>, or <a href="https://www.pillowfort.io/MsCaptainWinchester">Pillowfort</a>.</p><p>And if you'd like to come yell about my main ship, Spideypool, with me, join the 18+ Discord server I co-mod, <a href="https://discord.gg/w6UyAn7">Isn't It Bromantic</a>!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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